The Opposite of Sex

Izzy and I went out the other night to celebrate three things: her temporary financial windfall, her (and, to a lesser extent, my) Sober October baby steps, and my send-off to North Carolina for two weeks to pump out some VBs. The margaritas were good, so we had three of them alongside some snacks (guacamole, tacos, a quesadilla). Once we got soused, she told me something she’d been hiding from me for a little while, how a coworker sent her an anonymously penned story about a gay guy and his lady friend who started having sex together. She couldn’t bring herself to share it with me until then because it made her feel icky (because, obviously, we share the opposite of sexual interest in one another. In high school, when I went to the prom with Kat it caused a small stir because I, the drum major, was such an improbable date; the following Monday, someone spread a rumor that we had made out and we were both equally disgusted). Then the bill came. $120. One hundred and twenty dollars. For tacos. It takes a lot to shock Izzy, but the bill managed to do it. We responded by buckling over into fits of laughter, paying, naturally, by credit card, suffering even greater hilarious shock after calculating the tip. As we were leaving, I said, “You know, I considered taking us to a hotel bar tonight,” actually meaning it, thinking it would be a good change of scenery from the handful of bars we always go to after work. Izzy said, “I’ll bet you did!” We buckled over into fits of laughter and tears again, which lasted approximately five blocks. Then I got home at 10:05 and promptly fell asleep.